


Every Rose Has It's Thorn

by sorchafyre



Category: FAKE
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:06:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorchafyre/pseuds/sorchafyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short one-shot from a relationship in Berkley Rose's younger  days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Rose Has It's Thorn

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers and Acknowledgements: I don't own FAKE or Berkley, they belong to Sanami Matoh. Inspired by the song "Every Rose Has It's Thorn". Editing credit to Anglofans who made this story infinately better with her actual-editoral-rather-than-beta advice. Some would argue I have Rose OOC, but he was much younger then.
> 
> And yeah, actors ARE that hoplessly melodramatic and cliche. First published 23-Feb-04.

I looked at the words. No matter how eloquent, they were just marks on paper. It was supposed to be therapeutic, writing a letter you never intend to send.

 _My Dearest Berkley,_

 _I saw you today. It's been a few years, but I still keep up. I know you made Police Commissioner, that was the last step before mayor, wasn't it? Every once in awhile I still go down to the plaza and sit for the afternoon. I'm not really waiting for you, or at least I keep telling myself that. Pathetic, hm?_

 _I wonder if you've kept up with me? Do you know I'm on Broadway now? I can't imagine how we've never been invited to the same parties. My agent says I have a real shot at a Tony Award this year._

We came in from the party still laughing. Berkley took his shoes off and fell onto the couch.

"I feel it is time for more sustenance," I said, in pompous imitation of our previous host, causing Berkley to shake with laughter again.

"Well, Don, you should assess the situation in the kitchen. As Stanislavski said, when he personally imparted his knowledge of The Method during my sojourn in Europe, it is time to garner some life experience." Berkley had another guest, an arrogant actor, down pat.

"Hey, don't you knock my profession." Although my words sounded humorous, I still felt stung as I moved over to the area of our loft we jokingly called the kitchen. Although Berkley seemed to scorn acting as a serious profession, it paid our bills and I loved it.

When I turned back after having fixed two plates of munchies, I saw my partner lounging with his leg slung over one arm of the couch. I frowned.

"Come on, Berk. You know that breaks the arm." He sighed at the old argument, but moved his leg. Berkley seemed preoccupied as I ate, the silence more strained than companionable. I yawned, and headed toward the bed in the corner, leaving my lover to clean up. He was annoyed, judging from the way he was rattling around the dishes. Finally he turned off the light and slid into bed.

I looked at the bars of light patterning the wall. Like old friends, their patterns held a familiar comfort, unlike the silence between Berkley and I. It hung leaden; the air before a storm, heavy with potential. Finally he spoke, his voice even in the darkness.

"Have you heard from your agent?" I was between jobs again.

"No," I replied. "I've got an audition for a near-Broadway comedy next week, though."

"When are you going to get a...second job?" Although the pause was slight, I heard it. We both knew that if he had said the words 'real job' nothing could have stopped a full out fight.

"You don't think I'll ever make it, do you?" His silence lasted long enough to cut through my dreams. "Well, at least I don't have to spend my evenings smarming up to some awful politician." I was hurt, I was lashing out in anger and we both knew it. "I hate the way you have to pander and kiss up to those people."

"You already know this," he said in a weary voice. "I'm going to need their influence when I graduate. I *will* become mayor one day, so I have to play the game now." There was no doubting the determination in his voice. I looked at the ceiling and wished he could believe in me like that. "You know it means nothing to me. Why? Are you jealous?"

Damn, I hated when he did that. Of course I was jealous. Not of the people, I knew that his flattery and attentions meant nothing. I was jealous that his passion and belief was reserved for his goal and not for me.

"I don't need a second job." The words came out angrier than I had intended. "I'm doing just fine paying all the bills around here. If you think we need more money why don't you get a job?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I closed my eyes in instant regret. As the silence stretched, I waited for him to explode but there was nothing. When I could stand it no longer, I gathered my courage and looked over.

I don't know what I was expecting to see. Berkley Rose with silent tears was not it, however. I reached over to hold him, my own tears beginning.

"We're not going to make it, are we?" I whispered, when we had both calmed down.

"Yes we will," he said, "We'll work something out." He sounded like he was trying to convince both of us.

I'm not sure either of us slept that night, although we both pretended to.

*********************************************

 _I haven't been lonely, you know. I've had quite a few interesting relationships. Nothing serious, though. Don't feel sorry for me or anything, they were pleasant and we parted amiably. Better than we did. Would it have been easier if we'd fought?_

 _I keep wondering what I could have done differently. What I could have said to make it come out differently. I know there had to have been something that would have kept you from leaving me. I know I could have saved our love that night if I'd known what to say._

I tossed my packages down on the couch when I came into my apartment, all except the one from the florist. I snagged the bud vase off the counter and carefully filled it with cold water and preservative before placing in the single red rose.

It had become a tradition for me since Berkley moved out. Every Sunday I bought a single rose and left it on the table for the week. It had become almost a game for me, to see how long I could make it look beautiful before it died. Like all artists, I was hopelessly symbolic. If I couldn't have my real Rose, I would have another.

It had been six months since we decided to try living apart, even though we were still in love when we parted. Looking back on it now, I wonder what I was thinking when I agreed.

Even after this long the apartment was too quiet. I turned on the radio. Absently I listened to the DJ as I put away my purchases.

"It's the love hour here at KPKT. And we all know love's just a game, don't we folks. A game of easy come, easy go as our very own Roger and the Rangers will tell us later on in the hour. So stay tuned, but first here's a little something to get you in the mood."

THAT song. Yeah, it figures they'd play our song, that's just the way my day's going. I listened to the sweet strains of the music, remembering all the times we'd spent together. How you felt in my arms, how we danced. How I always made you laugh. Viciously I snapped the radio off, and decided to go out for dinner.

***************************************  
 _  
You've changed you know. You seem taller, for one thing. And you move with a lot more confidence._

 _You were walking with one of your detectives. No, I don't know everyone in your department but I know he was yours. Did you even know you had that possessive way of looking at someone? And then you smiled at him. Your smile is just the same. I didn't know my heart could still be broken until that moment._

 _How stupid. You still have power over me. Would you like that, if you knew? You always did want power. No, that's petty and unfair. You didn't enjoy power, you just wanted independence._

 _You looked happy, though. Are you happy, my Rose? Are you lovers, you and your detective?_

  
I had to stop writing. The paper was getting too wet from my tears. It wouldn't matter anyway, I had said everything I needed to. Crumpling up the paper, I put it in the ashtray and set it on fire with a trembling hand. I hadn't been able to wash away my love for you in tears, so watching the flames I hoped I could burn you from my heart.

Much later, I laid the petals from this week's rose on the ashes.


End file.
